


Between the sand and the storm

by Whenhopediesyoung



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Rogue One, Pre-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16081346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whenhopediesyoung/pseuds/Whenhopediesyoung
Summary: Boba Fett should despise the sand. Sly and rough perfect for slipping into infeasible cracks and jamming up gear. But it is better then the incessant rain of his earliest memories. Almost familiar, in that strange way which reminds him of Mandalor.Then he runs into the pilot.





	Between the sand and the storm

Behind his helmet Fett sneers. The Troopers behind him make more of a racket then droids, audible even over the howling wind. They are worse then useless caught up in the Empire's own mess. Natives had know better then to mine during windy days lest the flammable particles fly alone with heavy top soil. Too bad the Empire never bothered to listen to those they subjugated, it would have saved Fett some time. He winced as the native gestures fiercely at the captain. Amateurs, all of them.

"Enough." His voice is rough from disuse, nearly as coarse as the flying soil. He can perceive relief in the Trooper's shoulders. The native looks less reassured. Good, he's not here to comfort anyone. Still, any fool knows a scrapped together vehicle's more likely to spew flames then not and Boba refuses to be burnt alive. "Sir? Your orders?" The squadron look at him like a group of scared children, nerves rubbed raw by the constant threat of death.

They won't last long in the field. Not that Fett particularly cares. "Is there another pilot close by?" He asks, ignoring his charges. It's a risk given the rebel activity in the area, and the typical strained relations, but he'll take it. Anything to get back to his ship and off planet before his armour loses its distinctive color. Besides the native is eager to send them away. He might value his own life over loyalty or revenge. Boba would. Above loyalty at least.

The language is mostly trills with an occasional hard growl interspersed. Fett doesn't know how much of his linguistics is learned and how much is grown. He doesn't want to dwell on it. Four trills. Two growls. It's a distance, but apparently worth the trip. Cargo transport, run with an Empire pilot. Promising. Boba nods in the indicated direction, shallowly, just to be sure eyes fixed on the other man's face. No sign of discomfort or falsehood. It will have to do.

"Up the hills until we're reach about a mile from the farthest mine, the storm will be worse the closer we get." He can hear them shift undoubtedly exchanging looks. "To where sir?" The Trooper who speaks sounds almost as rough as Boba, having been drinking water when the storm descended. He'll need medical attention judging from the wet cough that shakes his form. If Boba could safely it's his blaster he would deal with it already. Luckily the Troopers are almost as ruthless as bounty hunters, they'll leave him behind if he falls.

"Move out." He thinks he's free from other objections when another voice reaches his back. "Bodhi." The name sounds strange half-mangled by the natives vocal cords. It sounds strange, familiar the same way most deserts are to Boba as if he knows it in a way that goes beyond memory. Concealed by his helmet Boba mouths the name fumbling over it. The strange sensation reminds him of the moment before a bolt leaves his blaster, of the sick feeling on Genosis. He lets the familiar flash of rage burn it away, a blistering sun banishing night dew.

As they began their treck, it starts to rain.

Night is falling by the time Fett spots the cargo ship. To be fair they almost stumble over it by then rain covering everyone in grimy mud. Fett can hardly move heavier armour attempting to drag him down with the mud. He has not bothered to look after his companions, and yet by a stroke of bad luck has lost none aside from the captain. He drowned, mud sinking into his helmet as his Troopers tried to drag him up. One of them retrieved the helmet, holds it numbly. He should recommend that one for a promotion, the helmet must feel like duresteel by now.

Or perhaps that would be cruel.

Boba bangs on the door of the cargo ship. "In the name of the Empire-" The Trooper nearest to him starts only to trail off with a wet, agonized, cough. The door hisses onlt half open still narrowly missing those closest to the door. Boba staggers back almost falling himself, then surges foward with a strength he had not realized he possessed. His fingers fumble for the clasp of his helmet as the Troopers clampour into the ship. He gasps for breath once it's off a glob of mud falling off it onto his cheek.

Directly in front of him a scrawny pilot blinks in shock. His hair is even longer then Bob's held back into a tail. The scruff on his lower face serves to sharpen it, perhaps unintentionally. A new burst of wind sends the wounded Trooper foward to smack the door pannel. To the relief of everyone inside it seals all the way shut. Boba fights the urge to yank off his armour and leave it on the ground. He can hear his father's childing voice reminding him his armour is his life.

"Do you have anything to clean armour with?" The pilot visibly flinches at his voice hands moving as if to fidget. Behind him the stormtroopers work themselves out of helmets, scrape chunks of mud off faces and necks. "Medical gear?" The pilot refocuses dark eyes jumping to Fett. "Only th- the clothes I was cleared to bring with me. Plenty of bacta and medgear though." His eyes jump erratically around. Boba, his vhest, the floor, the wall, floor again, a brief glance up at Boba's face. If he wasn't trembling like a senator before Vader, Boba might think he was lying.

Boba nods once, before turning his attention to the Troopers. "Take him to the medicine, you two escort them both. The rest of you have ten minutes to strip down to your blacks before you're stuck in that gear all night. We'll see about wounds and food after." They're out in three. Boba stalks to the hallway between the entrance and cargo hold to strip off his own gear. He's taken one of the Trooper's kit and sets to work with cleaning his mud coated armour losing himself in the familiar motions.

He comes back to himself as the pilot appears, lingering uncomfortably in the doorway. Though initially planning to let the other man suffer, Boba finds himself almost as relaxed even as he watches the stranger from the corner of his eye. "Bodi." The pilot jerks face sharpening. "Bodhi." He corrects automatically, wincing almost immediately after. Fett can't stop his smile. "Was there something you needed Pilot?" Then almost overcome by the curiousity- how would he react- he adds "Bodhi."

The pilot glances away flustered. Boba feels his face flush in response, glances away in surpise. "I- I need you to sign off on the goods your Troopers are consuming. If you don't sing the Empire w-" "Let me see it." Boba interjects, face still faintly burning. It's a lot. But at this point Boba can wrap his head around why, he's starving and bruised as well. Sighing he runs quick calculations and edits the amounts, times consumed and ship resources taken advantage of. He might as well only sign once. "Here. I need a shower and a place to put my armour."

The pilot gives him a quick glance, his eyes are so _dark_ , as he retrieve the datapad. Boba feels distinctly off balance, skin pebbling. "You can keep it in my rooms. Rwarther can take you to the showers." No stutter this time, though he speaks firmly at Boba's feet. He feels strangely light at that fact. "Rwarther?" Another quick glance and Boba realizes his face has softened and instant too late. "Your wounded Tr- StormTrooper." Fett nods, abruptedly reminded of his actual job.

He should find the wounded Trooper- he should be the one called lucky- and take a shower before he drops from exhaustion. Eat if he can manage it, drink even if he can't. Make sure he didn't leave any remaining Trooper outside in the elements. Plan for the earliest he can leave. Set an alarm so he doesn't sleep too long. And yet...

"I'd hate to take him away from his rest." Boba makes him voice low, lets the rough rasp purr intriguingly underneath practiced sauveness. He's too tired to do more then flirt but he knows how to from countless hours of watching Jango do it. And unlike Jango he's sincere. Still if he's not careful the other man will feel obliged, and that's the last thing he wants.

It's an empty worry, he realizes with almost giddy surprise as the pilot looks at him with  those damn dark eyes. He needs to sleep. Before he starts thinking poetically about the difference in Bodhi's meek darting glances and the sudden heat blooming deep. As sudden as a sand storm. Kriff, too late. "I would be happy to take you-" "Fett, Boba Fett." He feels as smooth as his father, or even better.

Not that that does him any good as he emerges half asleep, lucky to scarf down a ration bar and some water before passing out. He dreams of a sunbaked land, hiding glittering crystals. No rain, no mud, just smooth sand. And a handsome long haired companion.


End file.
